


Prison Blues

by exarite



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dubious Consent, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-graphic and not between Tomarry, Prison, Prison Sex, Public Claiming, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Inexperience, Wrongful Imprisonment, brief non-explicit Harry/Ginny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-12 15:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18449336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exarite/pseuds/exarite
Summary: Framed for a crime he didn’t commit, Harry is sent to prison. Not only is he young and fresh-faced, Harry is—wasa cop. He quickly catches everyone’s eyes and not in a good way.Tom Riddle, his cellmate, offers protection.For a price.





	Prison Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedHorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/gifts).



> to Red, I hope I did your prompt justice (haha) ❤️ I hope you like this!!! (u already knew who i was, but i hope you know how much i love you so 😭❤️)
> 
> thank you to stuffle and Caty for the beta and the feedback, the confidence boost and for pointing out weird plotholes 😰 this fic wouldn't be what it is without the two of you ❤️❤️
> 
> TW in end notes (and tags)!

 He was innocent.

Harry was numb as they led him away. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny, Hermione, and Ron trying to catch his gaze, but Harry couldn't bring himself to look up from the handcuffs around his skinny wrists. He felt dazed. He felt as if he was going to drift away into the sky, be free. The cold bite of the shackles grounded him and reminded him that no, he _wasn't_ free.

He barely registered the clamor of reporters, the bright flash of their cameras, the looks of judgment sent his way. His mind was still stuck on just a few minutes ago, replaying that moment over and over as if the ending would somehow change when he was still here, still being led down the familiar path to the holding cells.

The bang of the gavel, the judge's loud voice, and the sinking feeling in his gut of hopeless despair. His verdict.

_Guilty._

Harry closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped. For a moment, he bitterly let himself think that they didn't actually have to lead him down this section of the courthouse. Harry had walked this path tens, hundreds of times before. Never as the one in cuffs though, always the one with the leash in his hand.

But he supposed it made sense.

He wasn't a cop now, after all.

He was a convicted criminal.

x

"You have two choices, Harry," Hermione said.

Harry stared down at the table, his hands clasped together. He was still cuffed, a chain around his waist, and leg irons around his ankles as well. He hadn't expected them to smart so soon. Every step he had taken just to get here had made them dig into the tender flesh of his ankles, even through his trousers.

"What?" He asked when Hermione didn't continue.

Hermione licked her lips and then sighed, ducking her head to look down at the files she had in her hand. Her normally bushy hair was tied back, but it threatened to free itself from her comparably flimsy hair tie.

"You can either go to the local prison and be put into solitary, away from the others or…"

"The other option," Harry immediately cut off. He repressed a shudder. He had spent long enough in the Dursleys' version of 'solitary', and he wasn't keen on repeating the experience. He was 25 now, but the memory of his lonely, dark cupboard was still stark in his mind.

Hermione's expression turned concerned. "That's the one where they'll take you to a different prison. One far away, where you hopefully won't be sharing space with the same people you put in there."

"Hopefully," Harry repeated. He grimaced. That was all he had now, really. Hope.

"We'll get the decision overturned," Hermione said, her voice low. She leaned in and place her hand over his, the warmth of it soothing him. "We're already working on filing an appeal."

"That's still going to take _months_ , 'Mione." Harry's tone was snappish out of frustration, and he immediately regretted it. He pulled his hand away from hers, face pinched. "I'm sorry, I'm just…"

"I understand. You're going through a lot," Hermione said. She said nothing about how his temper was what got him in this situation in the first place. She shook her head and gave him a pained smile. "It's okay, Harry. It'll be okay."

Harry nodded. His fingers clenched around the knees of his trousers, his knuckles white. He wasn't sure if he could believe her, but really. What else could he do?

x

"Detective Potter," a mocking voice came from his side. Harry looked up and instantly, he stiffened. Zacharias Smith gave him a look of disdain, his nose up in the air, his expression so haughty that Harry's fist clenched with the temptation to punch him right in his smug little nose.

"Smith," Harry greeted tightly.

Smith sneered.

"Oh, how the high have fallen," he said, and Harry straightened up, his shoulders rising, his jaw tightening. Smith crossed his arms and leaned against the wall in front of Harry's temporary holding cell, eyes flicking up and down. "Last time I saw you, you were making one of the biggest arrests of the year. Funny how you're a murderer now, you think?"

"I didn't do it," Harry snapped, and Smith tsked.

"That's not what the court said a few hours ago. Wonder what you'll be like the next time I see you." He paused deliberately and then smiled, cruel and hard. "Oh wait, that's years from now."

"Sooner than you might think," Harry muttered to himself, ducking his head. His only saving grace was that there was no one to overhear his conversation with Smith. The rest of the other… _criminals_ had already been taken away to the local prison, but of course, Harry was a special case.

They were taking him somewhere completely different, a minimal effort in their part to make sure no harm came to him. Or, not much, anyway.

"Well?" Smith said, ignoring him. He pulled out a set of keys, the jingling metal somehow exceptionally loud. He unlocked the door to Harry's cell and motioned dramatically. "Come on then. Time to go to your new home."

Harry stood, his shoulders tight. He allowed Smith to cuff his wrists and attach them to a chain around his waist. His ankles were next, and Harry's face was hot with the ever-present frustration that had settled on him since his court hearing.

"Do you know where they're taking me?" Harry asked, not looking Smith in the eye. He stared at the fluorescent bulb and wondered if it was always that bright and he just hadn't noticed.

Smith scoffed. "No one told you?" He gave Harry an amused look. "They're taking you to Azkaban."

x

"Chin up, kid."

Harry's jaw tightened. The frequent, teasing remarks on his baby face had irritated him before, but now? Now he felt like there was an undertone to it, a threat almost, one that made his hair stand up, goosebumps pimpling his flesh.

_"People here don't know you're a cop, but they sure as hell can see your pretty face."_

Smith's parting words to him from earlier were enough to leave Harry high-strung, and with each look, each side-eye, the coil in Harry tightened even more. He hadn't even been here for more than an hour, and yet Harry felt as if he had already aged decades. Even the words that came out from the guards seemed to be charged, innocent as they were.

How was Harry going to last months, much less _years_ here?

"Strip."

Stubbornly, and with all the dignity he possessed, Harry took off his shirt. The prison officer looked bored, and Harry didn't know if his apathy was worse than any leering, appreciative look, or plain power-tripping.

"Your trousers too."

Harry ducked his head and undid his trousers. They were one of his better ones. Hermione had made him wear it specifically for his court date so that the jury and the judge would get a better impression of him. Fat load of good _that_ did.

He endured the ensuing strip search with the tatters of his bravery, chin up and eyes blank. It was purely professional. No lingering touches, no groping. Just a cursory swipe down his body.

He's handed a set of Azkaban's prison uniform: a thin cotton shirt, a sweater, and joggers, all of them a matching bland shade of blue and too large for him. It was almost as if he was back with the Dursley’s. Harry wasn't sure too if they were meant to be that color, or if it was really just that old and faded. There were a few mysterious stains on his joggers, and Harry grimaced. He didn't particularly want to know their origins. It was one of those things that deserved to remain a mystery.

Harry watched in pain as his clothes and the rest of his possessions were taken away. All he was allowed to keep was his shoes, and even those only after they were searched thoroughly.

Protocol stated that Entry-level inmates had two weeks before they moved up to Standard, and it took another three months of good behavior, at minimum, before Harry would reach Enhanced status as a prisoner. It would only be then that Harry would be allowed to wear his clothes again rather than the grimy uniforms they had given him.

By then, hopefully—that keyword again, _hopefully_ —Harry would be out of here.

Harry went through the rest of the procedure quietly, keeping to himself. He only spoke when he was spoken to, breezing through the fingerprinting and picture taking. The admission and orientation interviews and briefings with the prison officials went more or less the same, even if Harry wondered the entire time if they knew he used to be one of them.

They asked if he wanted to hurt himself, or if he wanted to hurt anyone in this room. Harry lied and said no.

They enumerated the things Harry was supposed to do, and Harry listened to them, his leg bouncing in the uncomfortable plastic chair they had put him in. It was fairly simple. Keep his cell clean, follow the routine, work in the prison factory. Exercise. Go to the class they had specifically assigned him for anger management. Be a good, obedient thing.

They moved on quickly to the things they weren't allowed to do, and Harry couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the pretty bare list. No fighting or fucking—or, at least, the crude whisper by a fellow newcomer, don't get caught at it. It was no problem for him, Harry thought. He was going to keep his head down, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be fucking anyone.

Then finally, Harry was given the essentials: sheets, a flimsy blanket, a towel, and toiletries enough to last him a few days.

Once the officer gave it to him, he flicked through a list on his clipboard. "Evans?" He asked, and Harry nodded. They had asked him to go by a different name. Protection, they said. Even here, even months after Harry’s biggest arrest, the name Harry Potter was far too recognizable. He supposed that’s what happened when you take down a Death Eater crime ring. The Death Eaters were already labelled as possibly the worst group Britain had ever seen.

The officer's lips thinned. He looked at the list, and then back at Harry, eyes heavy on Harry's features. Harry frowned self-consciously, shifting in the place where he stood.

"You're in Unit 3, Cell 16. You're with Riddle," the officer finally said, and Harry nodded. He followed the newcomers out of the room, something like worry and dread clawing in his empty stomach.

He must have imagined the look of pity on the officer's face.

x

Cell 16, Harry's new home.

Harry looked around curiously, hesitating at the entrance. It was empty, the Riddle that the officer had named missing, but his cellmate’s things were in the cell, along with a simple bunk, a toilet and sink to the side and a basic desk. It was clean, at least, and there was no lingering smell that spoke of bad hygiene. The bottom bunk was made neatly, and Harry sighed, accepting that the top bunk, as of yet still bare, was his now.

The low thrum of anger at his situation suddenly came back, and Harry clenched his fists. The court decision had only been what, this morning? His time at Receiving and Discharge had helped tamper down his frustration, but now, Harry was finally alone. Away from Smith and the other cops, away from the prison officers, away from his fellow prisoners.

Harry released a low breath and resisted the urge to punch the wall, to kick, to destroy the room he was in. These weren't his things. This wasn't really _his_ cell, yet, and Harry didn't want to make a bad impression on his new cellmate.

He dragged himself and his prison kit over to the bunk, and with a lack of grace that didn't surprise him, he dumped it all on his top bunk.

He collapsed on the bottom bunk and put his head in his hands. He knew it was wrong to sit there, but the exhaustion of the long day finally hit him, the injustice heavy on his shoulders and making them drop. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be home, with Ginny. Or with Hermione and Ron, doing God knew what. He yanked his messy hair, the pain of his scalp grounding, and closed his eyes, his teeth gritted.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn't right.

A rap against the metal cell door shocked Harry, and he jumped, looking up, hand flying to the sheets below him.

"Sorry," he said, quickly standing up from the bottom bunk. "I know it's yours, I was just…" He trailed off, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, eyes flicking up to meet his cellmate’s.

His cellmate was older than him by at least a decade, maybe two. Taller. Bigger. Harry's mouth dried, and he barely resisted the urge to shrink back. It wasn't just because he had a good few inches on Harry. The older man had an imposing, familiar aura about him, and Harry only needed one look at him to know that he was undeniably dangerous, in one way or another.

His instincts on people were never wrong. He had a good five years in the force to sharpen them, and by now, Harry was confident enough to know that this man was someone to be wary of, even despite his classically handsome look, his aristocratic features.

And Harry was going to be living with him.

He swallowed.

Riddle eyed him speculatively, his eyes quickly assessing. They went to Harry's things on the top bunk before they dropped back to Harry, his gaze cool.

"And you are?" He asked. Harry wet his dry lips, and fuck it, he stuck out his hand.

"Harry," he replied bravely, chin up. Riddle’s gaze on him made him feel as if he was being held to a standard he wasn’t made aware of, and worse, was found lacking.

Still cold as ice, Riddle walked languidly towards him. He took his time. Harry's hand wavered in the air in front of him, and irritation twitched at the corner of his jaw at the blatant powerplay.

Riddle tilted his head, his hands in his pockets. He was wearing his own clothes rather than the prison uniform, a tell of his established position here and his Enhanced status. They were plain, and yet even to Harry, he could tell they were of good make.

“Tom.” Riddle made no move to take his hand, and annoyed, Harry let his hand drop to his side. What a prick.

"What are you in for?" Tom asked, tone bored. The glint of interest in his eyes said something else entirely, and Harry shifted, discomfited.

"They said I killed someone."

"Said?"

Harry's lips thinned, and despite his desire to stick up for himself, he ducked his head. His fringe covered his eyes. "I didn't do it," he muttered, and Tom let out an amused sound.

Harry looked up, his eyes narrowed, and Tom leaned in, looming over Harry.

"You're pretty green, that's obvious," he said slowly. "First tip: don't tell other people that. They'll take it as a weakness."

"There's probably loads of blokes here that are wrongfully convicted," Harry argued defensively. He did his best, but sometimes justice just wasn't served. The system wasn't fallible.

"Of course," Tom said, leaning away. Harry found that he could breathe again. "But none as pretty as you."

Harry spluttered, his face heating up. He took a step back, almost stumbling into the bunk, and just barely righted himself.

"I—what?" His voice was high-pitched, disbelieving, but Tom looked unfazed.

"You're fresh meat," he said bluntly. "And how old are you? 18? 19?"

"I'm 25!" Harry said, insulted, and Tom made a dismissive sound low in his throat.

"You're not going to last long here."

"I think you'll find I can fight my own battles," Harry said nastily, lifting his head to meet Tom's straight on. His face was hot. Hermione had warned him to just keep his head down for once in his life, but there was something about Tom that made him so _angry_ , and it had barely even been five minutes.

Tom raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicking down Harry's body. Harry almost shrank back. He knew he didn't look like much, especially drowning as he was in his too loose prison uniform. It hid his hard-earned muscle, the wiry strength Harry had worked so hard for.

"Sure," Tom said. Harry bristled. He opened his mouth to snap something out, but Tom abruptly leaned away, his smirk languid and so very irritating.

"I can offer you protection," he said. "I have influence here that you desperately need."

Harry frowned in confusion, his hands flexing at his side. At his silence, Tom stepped in closer, the distance between them shrinking, and Harry's throat went dry. His shoulders tightened, warning bells ringing in his mind, but he didn't move away. He didn't dare to show any more weakness to Tom.

"Of course…" Tom said, smirking. "Nothing comes for free."

It took a moment for it to sink in. Tom didn't do anything so crude as to _leer_ , but the proprietary, almost bored way his gaze flicked up and down Harry's body was enough to make the lightbulb flick on.

" _Excuse me?_ " Harry straightened up, the low thrum of anger quickly rising and overflowing. "I'm not going to be your—your _bitch!_ " He practically spat it out, his hands clenching at his sides at the nerve of the older man. He was straight!

Tom's jaw clenched, his dark eyes a warning in itself. Harry almost faltered, but he had years of standing up to dangerous men, and Tom, despite his imposing presence, was simply just one of them. Maybe Harry should be more concerned about keeping the peace between him and his cellmate, but Harry had never learned how to keep his mouth shut.

"Alright," Tom said calmly, and Harry _did_ falter at that, all his anger hovering uncertainly above him, unsure where to go.

"What?" He asked in disbelief. He had expected a bit more of a fight, a push at least. He didn't think that Tom would actually just accept his refusal.

"I'm only offering once." Tom shrugged, and the movement was elegant and composed. "Far be it for me to force you."

Harry eyed him warily, rocking back on his heels. His hands fluttered at his side, his face hot with the remnants of anger.

Tom gave him a cool look, his eyebrow raised. "If you change your mind, you'll have to beg."

Harry's teeth gritted together. He glared. "I won't," he vowed.

He found it hard to sleep that night. His eyes were wide open, every shift, every low breath Tom made in the bunk below him a warning, a threat. The older man must already be asleep, but Harry found it hard to trust in the slow, even breaths that he could hear. He didn't feel safe. There were hundreds of other bad men in this place, predators. Harry felt like he was sleeping right above the biggest of them all.

It must have been almost morning before slowly, finally, Harry fell into a restless, anxious sleep.

x

He woke from a nightmare with a cry caught in his throat, nauseating fear thick in his chest, the hair on his arms standing up. He had dreamt that he was in a pit of snakes, unable to run, unable to hide. Defenseless. Alone. It was far too close to his current reality.

He was freezing, the thin blanket on him pushed to the side, the mattress on his back painful. His heart was pounding in its chest, his front and back drenched in cold sweat. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, so much closer than Harry was used to, plain white plaster that cracked in the corners, and a dim light bulb in the center.

It took him longer than he wanted to admit before he remembered where he was.

x

Harry’s second day in prison was just as busy as his first. He didn’t have much time to dwell or mope in the morning. Even if his tiredness was bone-deep, a combination of his worry from the past week leading up his trial, further worsened by his sleep deprivation from last night, Harry didn’t care.

They very quickly established a routine for him: eat, sleep, work, and class. Tom, thankfully, had said nothing more about his proposition when he had woken up. Harry watched him, and he saw then what Tom had meant about ‘having influence here that Harry had needed.’

He saw how no one seemed to bother Tom, how people deferred to him in some odd way. There was an established hierarchy here, one that Harry didn’t know. Yet, at least. Tom hadn’t even looked at him, busy holding court in the middle of meals.

Harry couldn’t help but still feel unsettled.

He felt eyes on him. Every time he looked back, there would be men, some of them his age, most of them older, looking away. The bolder ones didn’t bother. Unlike Tom’s, their gazes were unashamedly lustful, blatant enough that a part of Harry squirmed in discomfort. They looked at his young face, his fit body hidden under his loose clothes, and they _hungered_.

Oh, Harry was intimately familiar with hunger.

Hunger needed to be fed.

And Harry? He was fresh meat.

x

It came to its natural climax later that night. Even with the day’s events, Harry didn’t think much of stripping and entering the showers for his block. It was empty, and it looked fairly like what Harry had been expecting. There were four shower heads in the middle and it was white tile all around. Nothing luxurious.

He went to the showerhead farthest from the door, his clothes over at the side, and turned it on. It was cold, but Harry wasn’t overly bothered. The Dursleys had never let him use the hot water too. He stepped in, hissing softly as that first wave of chill came.

Maybe others would have felt awkward about being nude and knowing anyone could just walk in on them showering, but Harry had played football and gone through police training with tens of other men. He had little to no qualms about being naked in front of others.

And so when the door to the showers opened, Harry didn’t think much of it. When a man settled in underneath the shower head right next to his, ignoring the other 2, Harry didn’t think much of it either beyond a _huh_.

Of course, when Harry was suddenly pushed to the wall and groped, Harry definitely had to think much of it then.

x

“Rough day?” Tom asked sympathetically. It was completely insincere.

Harry scowled at him. The ends of his hair were wet still from his interrupted shower, and his arms were sore from where his attacker had gripped him. His head was throbbing a bit, and Harry was sure that he was going to have bruises tomorrow.

But really. You should see the other guy.

“Fine,” he grunted. If he tossed his toiletries into their cabinet with more force and vigor than he should have, then that was no one’s business but his own.

He was right, anyway. He _could_ fight his own battles. He didn’t need to be Tom’s bitch to do it.

 _Maybe,_ he thought that night before he drifted to sleep _, it wouldn’t be so bad here._

x

The next day was otherwise the same. Same routine. Same eyes on his arse. Except that this time there was a bloke with a black eye, Harry’s name on it. Those who weren’t interested in him didn't bother looking. Those who had seen the black eye and knew it came from him looked a little warier.

 _Good_ , Harry thought.

Harry went into his assigned anger management class with things as normal as it could be in prison. When he exited the room, his hair immediately stood up. Instinct told him something was wrong.

Harry didn’t move, frozen right outside the room. He looked around him, his hands drifting to his side where—where he had no gun. He swallowed convulsively and hardened his stance: his shoulders back, his chin raised. He had worked to keep his posture and the way he walked lowkey, less of a cop post-boot camp. Some criminals had a sense for cops, and Harry had done his best to prevent suspicion.

He walked to the canteen for dinner that way, and he was achingly aware of the eyes on him. Inexplicably, they had changed. No less charged but in a different way. A different hunger in them.

Someone sidled up close to him during dinner that night and Harry stopped eating, his spoon hovering in the air. It was no hardship. The food was bollocks. The eggs were practically plastic, the mystery meat a mystery Harry suspected would never be solved even with the top forensics on the job.

The man looked to be about the same age or so of Harry. He had no visible tattoos, no piercings, although he was stick-thin, weedy in the way Ron used to be in the early days of his growth spurt. His gaze was narrow-eyed and perceptive. He otherwise looked utterly normal, a bloke that Harry might have seen on the street and thought nothing about.

“Nott,” the man said, holding out his hand. Warily, Harry took it.

“Harry,” he replied.

Nott took back his hand and eyed him. Harry reflexively swallowed, suspicious as to his heavy stare. And then—

“Harry Potter,” Nott said, and Harry froze. It wasn’t a question.

“Excuse me?” He said, voice faint. His grip tightened on his utensils, a shiver going down his spine. It felt like a bucket of ice had been dumped on him. How...How could he have known? Harry had done everything possible to not seem like a cop.

“You put my dad in prison,” Nott said. Harry opened his mouth and then closed it. Speechless. HIs knuckles were white, his teeth gnashed together. His eyes darted back and forth between Nott’s face and Nott’s hands, wondering what he would do.

“Everyone knows now,” Nott said, and Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach.

“You—”

“I didn’t tell them,” Nott said and shrugged. He looked remarkably calm for someone who was in front of the guy who caught his father. “I didn’t even recognize you until someone told me. You’re lucky my dad’s not in here.”

Harry swallowed. He dropped his utensils down to the side of his metal tray. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Would be a shame if you died before your first week was even done,” Nott said. That was all he said. He didn’t wait for Harry to reply before he stood up, took his tray and left.

And then Harry Potter was alone.

This time, he felt the eyes on him and knew why.

x

It was in a secluded corner of the prison factory that it finally happened. Harry had noticed in an offhand, instinctual sort of way that it was a blind spot from the security cameras. He was a fool to think he was the only one.

The right hook came out of nowhere, right into his jaw, and Harry cried out. He stumbled backward, reeling from the pain and shock. He had to shake his head to clear it before he could settle into a defensive stance.

He barely blocked the next hit. Harry saw red. He tackled his assaulter with no mercy, and they exchanged blows, the smack of fists on skin familiar and loud.

It was only with the intervention of the prison officers that he was able to stop before either of them got too bad.

x

Harry slowly entered the prison visiting room, dragging his feet. He stuffed his hands into the waistband of his joggers, his shoulders hunched.

They directed him to a stall, glass separating the prisoners from the visitors, and Harry reluctantly made his way there. He sat down.

Ginny gaped at him. Harry winced.

She grabbed the phone to the side, and Harry took his, gingerly pressing it to his ear.

"What _happened_ to you?" Ginny asked, her tone aghast. Harry winced again, reaching up to touch his bruised, tender jaw. It was the only evidence of yesterday. Harry would never tell Ginny about the rest of it. He would bring the bathroom incident to his grave.

"They found out I was a cop," Harry tried to explain. "I don't know how, but they did."

"I know it's hard for you, but _please_ , Harry," Ginny said, her eyebrows drawn in worry, her tone verging into condescending, "keep your head down. Don't pick any more fights."

"I tried," Harry argued, frustrated. He did. Kind of. He leaned away, rubbing a hand over his face. He ran his fingers over his mouth, wanting to bite down on his fingernails even if he knew how dirty they must be. "I did. I really did."

"Not hard enough, apparently," Ginny berated, and Harry felt his shoulders draw tight in defensiveness. He bowed his head as he shook it off, inhaling and then slowly letting out. If anything, at least the anger management classes of the prison system had been helpful. They had assigned him a lot more after they had caught him fighting _—defending_ himself yesterday. They had to peel him off and restrain him.

"Harry…?" Ginny said, and Harry looked up. Her expression was still twisted in concern. "Hermione and Ron wanted me to say hi. They said they'd try to visit."

At the mention of his friends' names, Harry wet his dry lips, hesitant now. He looked around him, checking to make sure no one was listening too hard. He didn't know if the calls were monitored, and he assumed they were, but he needed to say this.

He looked back at Ginny and pitched his voice low, keeping it hushed, "How're you guys doing with Project V?"

The Voldemort Project. Harry and Ron had been working towards uncovering the crime head for months now, but so far, they only had the barest whispers and the barest clues of Voldemort's real identity. Harry had been so close to a breakthrough before he had been framed.

He was here now, unable to do anything, but Ron, Hermione, and Ginny could still fight the good fight.

Ginny shook her head at him, wary now too. Her eyebrows were scrunched, her lips thin.

"We're doing our best," she told him seriously. "Don't worry, Harry. We'll figure it out. Just focus on surviving."

Harry let out a frustrated sigh and rubbed at his mouth again. "It's…It's dangerous here, Gin," he admitted quietly. "I thought I knew what to expect, and I thought I could keep to myself but…" He ducked his head, just a little ashamed. "You know me."

Ginny's face softened, and she leaned in, pressing her hand over the glass that separated them. Harry reached up and matched her, wishing and wanting to feel the heat of her palm over his.

"Do what you have to," Ginny soothed, and Harry felt himself relax. He could. He could do what needs must. Ginny would understand. Ginny exhaled, low and drawn out. "I just need you alive, it doesn't matter what you do. I believe in you, Harry. A few more months."

She pulled her hand away, and Harry felt his heart give a painful pang.

“You believe me right?” He asked urgently, his hand flexing on the glass. “You still believe I’m innocent?”

“Of course,” Ginny immediately replied. “Of course I do.”

Harry relaxed. He gave her a strained, thankful smile and pulled his hand away.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

x

It only took a few days before Harry cracked. It was days that dragged, days where he couldn't do anything but look over his shoulder. The fear and the anxiety pervaded every minute, every second, until Harry couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The eyes on him were too heavy.

He couldn't live like that any longer.

"I changed my mind," he said, his voice low and rough. He didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the floor of their shared cell. It was a little after dinner, lights out for the block, and it was quiet but for the sounds of the other prisoners settling in for the night.

It was okay, Harry reminded himself. Ginny said it was okay.

There was silence at his declaration, and then the sound of footsteps. Harry flinched, but he didn't look up until shoes appeared in his vision.

Tom simply _looked_ at him, his eyes cold and bored. He tsked, and Harry's gut clenched.

"I told you, didn't I?" Tom said, a cruel smile cutting across his face like a knife, sadistic pleasure unmistakable in his expression. It was—what Harry imagined at least—what those serial killers must look like before they struck someone down.

"If you change your mind, you'll have to beg."

Harry swallowed down the disgust, the anger, and pushed it deep in the pit of his stomach.

"Please," he said, and it came out like a hiss. Harry was abruptly reminded of his dream, the pit of snakes, the hissing that had surrounded him, and he flinched.

"Please what?" Tom mocked, and Harry's hands flexed and clenched at his side.

"I don't…I don't know what you want me to say," he forced out. It was like pulling teeth. Worse, even.

"Beg to suck my cock," Tom said, blunt and crude, so unlike the elegance and refinement he tried to wear even here in the depths of prison. It was shocking. Harry almost reeled with surprise at the vulgar word.

He said nothing, and Tom gave him a slow look up and down.

"Well?" He said, and Harry ducked his head, glaring at the floor.

The back of his neck tingled.

"Please…" he said through gritted teeth. "Please let me suck your cock."

"Sir," Tom corrected, and Harry's head snapped up.

His eyes narrowed, his upper lip curling, and he jutted out his chin, defiant and proud.

"No need to call me _sir_.”

Tom's eyes flashed. He stepped closer, and Harry wanted to take a step back to keep the safe distance, but he stood his ground. He bared his teeth in warning, but Tom was undeterred.

"What did you say?" Tom asked, voice low, needle sharp. It dug in all the vulnerable parts of Harry, flaying him open, dissecting him like he was just a cadaver for an autopsy.

Harry bit down his instinctual reply, and instead, he said, "Please let me suck your cock, _sir_."

He probably failed at keeping the sarcasm down.

To his surprise, Tom only laughed, genuinely amused— _condescending_. As if he was above Harry’s sass, and Harry was just an inconsequential brat. All of Harry’s gathered bravado dropped to the cold, cold floor, and he could do was warily stare.

“We can practice, I suppose,” Tom mused out loud, and Harry’s face went hot. Tom smirked at him. “It’s good enough for now.”

Harry shifted his body weight, awkward and nervous. His prison garb now fit no better than it did before, even with the bottoms of his trousers rolled up, and his sleeves pushed to his elbows. It made him feel smaller than he already was, weaker. Oddly vulnerable.

But worse still was Tom’s considering look over his form, as if Harry swimming in the prison uniform was actually _attractive_ to him.

Tom made a soft sound and then strode purposefully towards their bunk. He sat down on his bed and crossed his legs primly, the gesture out of place in their plain cell.

He tilted his head, eyes dark and intense on Harry. And then, his voice low, he said, “Strip.”

Harry swallowed.

Slowly, in a way that might be mistaken as a tease, Harry dropped his hands to the hem of his faded blue shirt, and then pulled it up. His stomach was bared, then his chest, until it was fully off his head. He almost dropped it on the floor beside him before he changed his mind and tossed it to Tom’s side. Tom didn’t even look at it, his eyes never straying even a single inch away from Harry’s body.

He pushed down his trousers, refusing to feel self-conscious of his knobbly knees. He wasn't the skinny teen of a decade ago anymore. He had filled out from actual, regular meals and the exercise necessary to work in the police, and he knew that he at least wasn't horrible to look at.

"Turn around," Tom said, bored, and Harry's teeth gritted tight. Humiliated and ashamed, he stepped out of his trousers and then started to do a 360.

"Slower." Tom's tone was darkly amused, and Harry shakily exhaled. He obeyed, cold running down his spine. He didn't know if it was from the chill of the prison cell or from the utter mortification at how displayed he was, at how Tom was staring at him like he was just a mere object to be enjoyed at the other man’s leisure.

He pushed it down and kept his head up, defiant even as he finished the whole full turn. He stared Tom down, just daring him to say whatever he wanted.

"You'll do." Tom's voice was low and honey butter smooth, velvet on Harry's bare skin. His eyes were dark and intense on Harry, the heat in it visible even with the dim light of their cell. He could feel them on his skin, like a physical touch, heavy and scalding. Harry shivered, and despite himself, his eyes dropped to the floor. It was too much. Tom’s whole presence was just so overwhelming.

"Come here," Tom ordered, and reluctantly, Harry shuffled over closer to him. He felt his courage leak out of him as he remembered that he actually had to _please_ Tom. He had never done this before. He…he might have thought about it, once or twice, in the dark of the night, but never in real life. Never seriously.

“Hurry up,” Tom said, impatient.  He grabbed Harry, pulling him in closer by his hips. His hands were large and warm, the heat of them branding where they touched his bare skin. The flimsy material of the underwear they had given him wasn’t enough.

Tom pushed Harry down to his knees, and Harry winced as they hit the floor. It was cold and hard underneath him, shocking. Harry's knees were already sore. In front of him, Tom was hard, the outline of the swell of his cock evident through the material. Harry shakily exhaled, and then tentatively, he reached out to undo Tom’s trousers. His knuckles brushed against Tom’s cock and it twitched.

Harry flushed. Bravely, he moved his hand and grasped Tom in his hands, over his pants. He had the same on as Harry, and a part of him was relieved at the proof that Tom really just was one of them, at the end of the day. Despite how he pretended he was unaffected and so much better than everyone else here.

“You’ve never done this before?” Tom asked conversationally as if Harry wasn’t in the motion of pulling out his cock from his pants.

Harry paused, his face hot, his grip faltering. Was it better to admit that he hadn’t? Or would Tom count that as a weakness?

What did it matter? Harry wasn’t into men.

He chose to say nothing, only continued to pull Tom out. Harry swallowed. The sight of Tom’s hard cock was striking, the head of it flushed red where it peeked above the foreskin, thick and long. It was the first he had ever seen in real life aside from his own and from glimpses in the locker room or the showers. Not like Harry was looking, but—

“Come on,” Tom snapped, reaching up to thread his fingers through Harry’s hair. His grip tightened, unrelenting, and he led Harry down to his cock.

Harry’s heart quickened in anxiety, and his grip on Tom’s firm thighs tightened. It was evidence of his panic and inexperience, but Tom either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

With one hand, he stroked Tom’s cock. His mouth pressed against the tip of it in an obscene kiss, the precum beading at the head staining his lips. He wet his dry, chapped lips without thinking, the tip of his tongue just barely swiping at the head of Tom’s cock, and the taste forced a soft sound out of him. His mouth parted.

Tom’s hand on his head pushed down, and the head of his cock slipped through the part of Harry’s lips. Harry dug his nails into Tom’s trousers, his eyebrows pinching as he struggled. There were too many things to think about—his teeth, his tongue heavy in his mouth, and the way Tom’s cock felt. The way Tom smelled, clean and of the same soap everyone used.

Tom hissed as Harry’s teeth caught on the head of his cock, his grip on Harry’s scalp painful now.

“Stay still. Keep your mouth open and relax your throat.”

Harry did his best to follow, his eyes closing, and he almost wheezed in shock when Tom started to fuck into his mouth, rough and uncaring of Harry’s discomfort. Both of Harry’s hands splayed out on the sheets, bunching them in his grip. All he could do was hold on to them from the thrusts of Tom’s cock into his throat.

This was nothing like going down on a girl. And yet, to his humiliation, he realized that didn’t stop from getting hard. The material did nothing to hide it, the tent in his underwear blatant and embarrassing, and Harry’s face burned. He let himself think that maybe Tom didn’t notice, but his hopes were immediately dashed when Tom’s leg moved forwards, right in between Harry’s thighs.

Harry jolted in surprise, his eyes flying open. He tried to draw away, but Tom had both hands on his head now, keeping him still as the front of his leg pushed against the swell of Harry’s cock.

Harry helplessly moaned around the cock in his mouth, his hips rolling forwards to follow after Tom’s leg without his permission. It had been too long since he had last been touched. Harry hadn’t dared to wank with Tom in the same room.

“That’s it,” Tom purred.

Ashamed, his face red, Harry didn’t stop. Hesitant, at first, but desire clouded his brain, made him grind and rut onto Tom’s leg. The whole time, Tom fucked into his mouth, rough snaps of his hips until Harry was choking on it, gagging, his eyes squeezed against the tears swelling in the corner of his eyes.

His orgasm took him by surprise. He dug his nails into the bed, his cock twitching inside his pants as he spilled, pleasure warm and sticky. His throat spasmed around Tom’s cock in his throat, and Tom groaned, the thrust of his hips turning erratic now.

Just as Harry was starting to panic that Tom would finish in his mouth, Tom pulled his head off, hard enough that Harry’s scalp smarted in pain. He pushed Harry down until his arse was on the floor, the cold shocking him, and then Tom roughly stripped his own cock.

With a grunt, Tom finished on Harry’s face. Harry flinched at the warm splatter over his cheek, his mouth, his nose, and as soon as Tom let him go he was wiping his face off with his hand, grimacing.

Tom smirked at him, his eyes half-lidded. He looked languid and composed, not a hair out of place. A stark difference to Harry on his knees, half-nude and debased with his throat and his knees both hurting.

Tom tucked himself back into his trousers and then reached beside him. He tossed Harry’s shirt back in an easy motion, and without thinking, Harry caught it and held it close to his chest. Belatedly, he remembered that his hand was stained with Tom’s spend and he grimaced. Fuck. He’d have to wash his shirt now.

“Could do with some work,” Tom mused, and Harry scowled at him. Shakily, he stood up just as Tom did, and he stilled as Tom pulled him in close again with a hand on his arm. The chill of the cell contrasted with the warmth of Tom’s body, the mere inches between them nothing.

He eyed Tom warily, wondering what more he could possibly want.

Tom’s eyes dropped down his bare chest, all the way down to his pants where Harry had finished in as if he _was_ a teen and not already 25-years-old. He smirked, irritatingly smug.

“No need to ask if _you_ enjoyed it, I suppose,” Tom said, and Harry flushed in embarrassment.

Tom tilted his head down for—for a _kiss_ , and Harry instinctively yanked his head back, disgusted, lips twisted. He tried to shove Tom away, but Tom's grip tightened around him, keeping him close.

"Don't kiss me," Harry said heatedly, and Tom's eyes flashed, dark and dangerous, no traces left of the smug amusement from only seconds ago. Harry bared his teeth.

Tom didn't do the same. He only tilted his head, but the movement was no less predatory. The air between them strung tight with tension.

He felt like a deer, Tom's gaze the headlights. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, just Tom shining a light and seeing through his false bravado. He was frozen.

And then Tom smiled, slow and serpentine, and Harry shuddered. Tom let him go and Harry quickly scrambled away to a safe distance. He was panting, he realized, his chest furiously moving up and down.

He waited for Tom to say something, anything, but Tom only kept smiling that same, strange smile at him.

"Goodnight," Harry said, once he had given up on waiting, stiff and tight. His heart was racing in his chest but Harry tried to keep his face even, the muscles in his jaw protesting at their forced submission to him.

"Goodnight," Tom said. He sounded amused.

Shakily, Harry tore his gaze away. He grabbed his trousers off the floor and shoved his legs into them. He discarded his shirt in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. Turning his back to Tom made him feel vulnerable, the hair at the back of his neck prickling, but there was nothing for him to do.

And even when he was lying down in his bed, Tom the same in the lower bunk, Harry could still feel the weight of Tom's gaze. He could still taste Tom in his mouth.

His sleep was no more restful than the other nights. He dreamt once more of the pit of snakes, but this time, there was another snake. It was much bigger than any snake Harry had ever seen in real life. It was ten feet tall, then twenty, thirty—every time Harry blinked it seemed to get bigger and bigger.

When it turned to look at him, its eyes glowing, it was only then Harry woke up, frozen in fear, a yell tearing itself out of his throat.

Not for the first, nor the last time, Harry was left wondering, just wondering, what exactly he was doing.

x

The difference was stark the next day in the canteen.

Harry entered this time trailing slightly behind Tom, and this time, no threats were made on his life. No one sidled up close to him, overly aggressive from the overwhelming amount of testosterone. No one even looked at him it seemed, for longer than they had to.

He felt like a pet almost as he shuffled after Tom. The few people that looked at him quickly took another look at Tom and then tore their gazes away as if there was a gun pointed at them. Harry couldn’t decide if it was terrifying, or if he was grateful for it.

Tom didn’t even need to look at them for them to cower away, and Harry understood now. He hadn’t realized the extent of it the past week, even when Tom had told him straight out that he had influence over their fellow prisoners. Even when Harry had noticed that Tom seemed to be on one of the highest rungs here, he hadn’t noticed that no, it was more than that. Tom was at the very top.

He had been too busy thinking and seeing his own struggles, just doing his best to keep his head above the water, that he hadn’t fully, completely seen. He hadn’t seen Tom and how _everyone_ looked, moved, and acted around him.

Trailing near his side though, just a few steps behind, Harry finally saw. He finally understood.

Tom walked with purpose and power, and everyone leaped away, none daring to stay in his path. Everyone deferred to him in some way or another, and Harry didn’t understand why. He had thought that there’d still be people who’d take a chance on getting at him, even despite Tom, or at least put up a fight against his cellmate. He didn’t understand why everyone was so...submissive. Why _everyone_ seemed so afraid.

Who _was_ Tom? How did he hold this much sway? Harry wondered what Tom had done. What had led to him being imprisoned.

Even the table in the canteen with the best spot went to Tom and his group. No one dared to sit on it. It was, Harry thought a little sardonically, strangely a lot like secondary school and—

“Were you ever prom king?” Harry found himself asking, and Tom shot him a confused, irritated look.

“Twenty years ago? We didn’t call it that then.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He ducked his head. He didn’t have time to be embarrassed before Tom sat down and then dragged him down. Right onto Tom’s lap.

“Tom!” Harry hissed, already struggling to get up, but Tom wrapped an arm around his waist and kept him still. Harry was smaller and shorter than Tom, yes, but he was by no means slight or delicate. He was lean and with muscle, and he felt extremely awkward in this position. They had to sit at an angle so that Harry’s legs wouldn’t hit the underside of the table

“Behave,” Tom ordered lowly, ducking his head so his hot breath fanned over Harry’s ear, “if you know what’s good for you.”

Harry swallowed. For some reason, one Harry couldn’t explain, he felt his stomach go hot. It felt like the start of arousal.

“They said no—”

“Sex?” Tom asked, bored, and Harry faltered. Tom tsked. “Is this sex to you?”

“...No,” Harry said.

“Then that’s your answer.”

Harry’s lips thinned, but he said nothing more, only hesitantly settled there in Tom’s lap despite every instinct telling him not to.

“Good boy,” Tom drawled. He patted Harry on the hip over Harry’s loose joggers before his hand slid forwards. The tips of his fingers brushed Harry’s inner thigh, a tease, and Harry’s cheeks turned red as he struggled to decide what to do. It was far too close to his cock. He forced himself not to squirm. It would only make it worse.

His face warm, Harry couldn’t meet the eyes of Tom’s—friends? Minions? And his only mercy was that they didn’t look at him either. They kept their eyes on their food or on each other, their gazes sliding past him as if he was inconsequential.

And Tom was right. None of the prison officers seemed to care that much. They did a double take once when they saw Harry in Tom’s lap, but ultimately they too looked away.

Harry realized another thing then, right there on Tom’s lap.

Every now and then, someone would pass by and brush against one of the occupants of Tom’s table. It only needed to happen twice before Harry’s keen eyes finally caught onto the exchange of little packets. Contraband.

He stiffened.

Simultaneously, the grip on Harry’s thigh suddenly tightened, and Tom made a low, warning sound. He had noticed then that Harry had seen.

“Clever boy. You think the wardens will actually care if you come up to them?” Tom asked, his voice hushed behind Harry. He at least didn’t bother to deny it, and for that, Harry was thankful. “You’ve barely been here two weeks. You don’t want to make any more enemies.”

Harry’s shoulders drew up, and he forced himself to relax. “You control everything here, don’t you?” He slowly asked.

Tom’s grip on his thigh loosened, and then Tom patted his thigh. It was somehow the most condescending thing he had done yet, and Harry’s lips twisted in irritation.

“It will do good for you to remember that.”

Harry’s throat went dry. He ducked his head, a way to protect the most vulnerable part of his throat, but he felt like it did nothing. It only exposed the back of his bare neck to Tom. Tom pulled him back further, and Harry made a choked sound as it only brought him nearer to the older man’s groin. Tom wasn’t hard, and yet Harry still felt as if his whole body was hot.

A fight started on the other side of the canteen, and Harry looked up. Not at the fight, but at Tom. Tom watched it happen, his face placid and unconcerned, but this close...Harry could see his eyes. There was a light in them and just the tiniest of smirks on his face as the two gangs pushed each other around. He enjoyed this, Harry realized—but no. That wasn’t quite the right word.

He _revelled_ in it.

Harry had traded in an active battleground for a minefield. No less dangerous, no less deadly, but deceiving. At least before, Harry had known what to expect.

Now, Harry thought, he knew nothing.

x

Tom let him go for Harry’s class—Anger Management again, because of course—and Harry took the opportunity to do what he was good at.

Detective work.

He, unfortunately, hadn’t taken into account that he held no power. Not here, not anymore.

“Those who know who he is, know better than to tell you.”

“And those who don’t?” Harry asked, frustrated. One of the prison officers shot him a warning look at his raised tone, and Harry fell back, his lips thin. Deliberately, he took in a deep, mocking, meditative breath and resisted the urge to glare.

“Oh, kid...They still know _real_ well what he’s capable of,” the man said, shrugging. He paused, thoughtful, and then added, “Even if they don’t? Tom Riddle knows every single thing about them."

And where did that leave Harry?

x

Harry was much warier now when he went to shower. He didn’t lock the door behind him, because there was no lock. There was no privacy here, after all. But when the door opened in the middle of his shower, Harry’s eyes immediately shot open. This time, he made sure to turn, narrow-eyed. It took a moment, his glasses were on his discarded clothes, but Harry had lived with Tom for almost two weeks now, and he could recognize him anywhere.

Harry stood there, just holding his soap in front of him as he watched Tom come nearer. He wasn’t alone. Harry frowned, eyes flicking back and forth between them and Tom.

“You do know there are only 4 showerheads,” he said when Tom started to strip. Tom looked at him, and Harry shifted, uncomfortable. Tom dropped his gaze, all the way down, and then all the way up, like a physical touch on Harry’s cold, bare skin. He had the urge to cover himself, to preserve the last bits of modesty he probably didn’t have anymore.

“We can share,” Tom said. He sounded darkly amused. He stepped under Harry’s still running shower, all the way into Harry’s space, and Harry instinctively took a step back. Another, and another, until Harry’s back was pressed against the cold tile wall. The water beat down on them, wetting Tom’s hair until it was sticking to his handsome face.

Without his permission, his eyes dropped down Tom’s body, his cheeks flushing. Tom was soft, uncut, and while his stomach and chest weren’t as firm or as well-defined as Harry’s, it was— _fuck_. He was staring.

He hurriedly looked back up, but it was too late. Tom looked smug.

“Tom,” Harry warned, but Tom ignored him, closing the final step of distance until he was pressed against Harry, their bare bodies flush. Harry yelped, reaching up to push him away, but Tom only gripped his wrist and pressed it against the wall.

Harry could feel everything. Tom’s thigh was in between his, Tom’s slowly hardening cock against his hip. He swallowed, dropping his head back onto the tile wall, and Tom immediately took advantage of his bared neck.

“Let me.” Tom bit down on the juncture between Harry’s neck and shoulder, and Harry couldn’t control the choked groan that escaped out of him. His hips jolted, but all that did was rub his interested cock against Tom.

“Why?” He hissed. His thighs were straining, tense.

“So everyone knows you’re mine.”

“I’m not yours,” Harry snapped, baring his teeth, and Tom only laughed. He pushed him harder against the wall,  his chest rubbing against Harry’s nipples that were tight from the cold water. He gritted his teeth as Tom nipped at his jaw, teeth threatening against his jugular.

“Aren’t you?”

He could _feel_ Tom against him, hard now and thick. Despite himself, Harry felt his own cock fully harden, filling out in response, and his face burned in shame. He glanced to his side, shy, but his embarrassment only deepened when he saw that Tom’s nameless underlings were unabashedly watching him.

He could see now that they were nude that most—no, _all_ of them had the same tattoo on their left forearms. He squinted. He could barely see without his glasses, but what he did see was familiar, the blurry, indistinct outline of it niggling in Harry’s brain. He didn’t know where he recognized it from, he needed to see it closer, but—

Tom pressed his mouth to the shell of Harry’s ear, his breath hot, and Harry turned his attention back to him, distracted.

“Isn’t that what we want others to think?”

He could fight Tom off. He could. Tom was bigger and taller, but Harry had experience with subduing bigger perps.

And yet—

“Bend over,” Tom ordered, pulling away, the heat of his body leaving Harry.

And Harry obeyed. He turned away and faced the wall, his hands going up to the tiles to steady himself. His breathing was erratic now, his chest heaving.

Tom stood behind him, his presence one Harry couldn’t ignore. His finger was slick now with soap, and Harry let out a startled gasp, his body tensing as it brushed against his hole. His face and his chest were warm now, Harry’s mouth open. Slowly, Tom pushed his finger inside and Harry let out a soft noise.

He had done this before, or something like it at least, with Ginny. But Tom’s fingers were so much larger, longer, more confident too. It didn’t take much before Harry was moaning, his lips red and bitten raw from his desperate desire to keep in his sounds. The beat of the water from the shower did nothing to mask or hide it, and Harry was achingly aware of the eyes on him.

His hips moved back into Tom’s fingers without his permission, and he keened, shuddering as Tom expertly stroked at the bundle of nerves inside him. He pressed his face into his arm to hide his moans, his flushed face, but his embarrassment didn’t fade.

It was too good, better than Harry had expected, had hoped, had dreamed.

And then Tom pulled his fingers away, and Harry was left desperate. He groaned, his hard cock twitching between his legs. He was painfully, achingly hard.

Tom’s hand in between his shoulder blades pushed and Harry’s bend was forced deeper until he was nearly parallel to the floor. He let out a protesting sound, but then something blunt was being pressed against his twitching entrance, and Harry froze.

Slowly, it pushed inside him, and Harry’s jaw fell open, his face twisting. It was thick and long, Harry had already known it was, but it felt so much different when it was stretching him out, the width enough that Harry’s body burned.

He pressed his face deeper into his arm, muffling the embarrassing sound of shocked pleasure. When his eyes fluttered open, he could see then that some of Tom’s underlings were stroking their own cocks, hard in their hands.

“God,” Harry whimpered. Unexplainably, he felt his own cock twitch, throbbing in what couldn’t possibly be interest, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore it.

“You’re taking me so well,” Tom murmured, bending over and pressing close so that his chest pressed against Harry’s chest. It only pushed his cock deeper inside of Harry, nudging that spot inside him, and blocked the fall of water. His mouth was at Harry’s ear, his breath hot and arousing, and Harry couldn’t control the sound that escaped him.

“Tom,” he begged. “Please.”

Please hurry up. Please get this over with. Please fuck me. Please stop.

Harry wasn’t sure which he meant, but it seemed Tom only cared for one possible meaning. He moved his hand on Harry’s back to Harry’s hips, gripped them tightly and then pulled out. The drag of his cock shocked a noise out of Harry, and the shove of it back inside him was bright, shocking pleasure in his veins.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry cursed, his voice breaking. He hurriedly bit down on his arm, trying to stay the sounds.

Tom was unrelenting now, fucking into him hard. The snap of his hips was loud, wet skin meeting skin, and Harry couldn’t do anything but hold on to the slippery tile wall. He was crying out with every thrust into the skin of his arm, his whole body shuddering. The sounds of their joining echoed into the bathroom, loud and obscene.

HIs legs shook, and his elbows collapsed until his face was pressed to the tile. He panted, little bursts of steam that fogged the tile, and he grunted when Tom pushed his legs apart wider and then continued fucking into him, rough and deep, uncaring of Harry’s pleasure.

And yet Harry was getting off on it anyway, his cock throbbing red, desperate to be touched.

He didn’t care now. He dropped his hand down, the other the only thing holding him upright, and gripped himself tight. He stroked, wrist twisting at the head. A tingle started from the pit of his stomach, and then radiated outwards, until Harry’s toes were curled, his fingers scrabbling desperately for purchase. His back bowed, arching under Tom’s grip, and it was with a choked groan that Harry came.

He spilled into the tiles beneath him, and it was immediately washed away by the water, down into the drain.

x

This time, when he walked down the hall, Harry felt no fear.

The ones who used to look at him didn’t dare to anymore. It didn’t matter if they wanted his arse, or wanted to get revenge. None of them looked.

He made eye contact with one of the men that had threatened him, and a strange sort of pleasure curled in his chest as the man simply looked away.

Tom didn’t even need to be his side. It felt as if his shadow was following Harry. Protecting him. Keeping him safe.

x

Harry was alone in the darkness. He looked around him, curious, wondering if he should be afraid.

There were no snakes anymore. Or at least he couldn’t hear or see them.

And then came the sound of something large sliding along the floor, right behind Harry. He tried to turn, but his body didn’t listen to him. Everything was slow, as if he was moving through molasses, his body ignoring his wishes.

He looked over his shoulder to see the giant snake rise, its glowing eyes keeping Harry frozen.

Harry was still as it opened its mouth and revealed its gaping maw, the pink of its mouth, the flash of its white fangs dripping with sickly green venom. It leaned in and set them on Harry’s neck. It didn’t bite down, but Harry could feel the thick globs of its venom land and pool in his collarbone, heavy and warm. He shuddered.

He didn’t move. He could barely breathe. All he could do was wait, wait for the giant snake to bite, to draw back, to do anything

He woke up still waiting.

x

“Progress?” Harry asked, his voice hushed into the phone. Ginny opened the files she had brought and then held it up to the glass. They had caught another one, they declared, and there was a picture of who.

Rabastan Lestrange. One of the biggest scandals of the year, what with how rich he was. They had suspected though that the Death Eaters were deeply embroiled even in the upper class. All Harry had managed to unveil months ago was just the first level, lower tier Death Eaters that ultimately meant nothing at the end of the day.

This was good. This was real, actual progress, and something in Harry soared in hope. It had been a week since Ginny’s last visit, and he didn’t expect things outside to move so fast while he was here.

Harry’s eyes scanned it, his brows furrowed. Lestrange had the same tattoo as the other Death Eaters Harry had arrested on his left forearm, of a skull eating a snake. He frowned, something nudging in his brain. He shifted forward in his seat to look closer at the familiar tattoo and flinched, just a bit. He was still sore from earlier. Tom had been amused when Harry had said he had a visit from his girlfriend today and had pushed him into his bunk to fuck him. He could imagine that he was still leaking with Tom’s come.

“Harry,” Ginny suddenly said, her voice dangerous. She dropped the paper from the glass dividing them, her eyes narrowed.

Harry followed her eyes and flinched, clapping a hand over his neck to cover up the marks. It was too late.

“What is that?” Ginny demanded, leaning in. If there wasn’t a glass to separate the two of them, he knew that she would have simply just yanked his hand off.

“It’s nothing,” Harry said, voice tight. With his eyes, he begged her to let it go. He couldn’t talk about this. He couldn’t explain himself, especially not to her.

“That doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Ginny snapped. Her voice was rising in pitch, and Harry’s hackles instinctively rose.

“You told me to do what I had to do!”

“I meant to fight back!” Ginny yelled, her face as red as her hair. “Not spread your—“

She abruptly cut herself off, dropping back to her seat. She was breathing hard, her eyes ablaze, and Harry belatedly realized that he was too.

“You don’t know what it’s like here,” Harry said, his voice rough, and Ginny furiously shook her head. His hands trembled against the phone in his hand, and in the corner of his eye, he could see the prison officers staring at him warily.

He couldn’t yell back, not when in his file he had already been marked aggressive. All the fights he’d been in hadn’t even been started by him, and yet there he was.

“Yes,” Ginny agrees, but there’s resentment there, her tone still heated. “I don’t know what it’s like there, because _I’m_ not the one who ki—“

“Don’t,” Harry snapped, the phone straining as he did. His face was hot with a sudden rush of anger and betrayal, like a burst dam that had been holding back everything. How _dare_ she. He stood, his chair scraping loudly behind him, the plastic phone creaking in his tight grip.  “Don’t, Ginny—“

“Sir!”

There were hands on his arms, restraining him, and Harry almost lashed out against them before he caught the black uniform of the prison officers. He dropped the phone, and it fell back with a loud clang, slamming against the table of the privacy stall.

He deflated, holding his trembling hands out submissively. His gut was churning and he felt sick with frustration.

“You said you believed me,” he said, and he didn’t know if Ginny could even hear him. They stared at each other, both of them tense and bright with anger.

He watched as a set of officers came to escort her away. He watched her go, his eyes hard and burning. He was still shaking. Silent, he let them take him away, back into the pit.

x

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Harry said.

Tom stilled. Harry’s jaw tightened. Carefully, body strung with tension still from his talk with Ginny, he closed their cell door behind him. The electronic lock clicked. It was far too early for them to do anything. Everyone was still awake.

“Will you repeat that?” Tom asked, his expression dangerous. Harry knew Tom had heard him, was simply playing deaf. This was Harry’s chance to say nevermind.

Instead, he repeated, voice strong and sharp, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“I don’t remember giving you the option to back out,” Tom said, dismissive. Harry scowled.

They had told him to think before acting, to breathe and count to ten before expressing his frustration.

One. Two. Thre—

“Come here,” Tom said. He patted his thigh.

Harry snarled and saw red. He stalked towards Tom, fist clenched, but before he could do anything, Tom had risen up, raising himself to his full height. Harry froze.

There was that same dangerous aura around him, the one that Harry had recognized at first sight. It was thicker, the air around them heavy, and Harry rocked back, faltering. They said that prey knew predator. Harry was no prey but…

He swallowed.

Then abruptly, Tom leaned away, his shoulders loosening. The imposing presence was gone now. Tom gazed down at him, his head tilted. His eyes were still hard. Unblinking. Reptilian, almost, Harry's hindbrain hissed.

“I do prefer you willing,” Tom mused, and Harry scowled. “You’re so pretty when you beg.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” he snapped, his face hot. He was still shaken from Tom’s clear danger, but he tried to hide it, an obvious bluster. Harry hated the weakness Tom seemed to just so easily bring out of him.

Tom didn’t dignify him with a response to the insult, only shrugged, loose and easy. “You’re going to regret this.”

“I won’t,” Harry promised. It sounded far too familiar to what he had promised that first time they had met, just almost two weeks ago.

He left their cell, unable to handle being in the same room as Tom for any longer. He could feel Tom’s eyes on him, heavy and dark, full of promise.

Inexplicably, dread pooled in his gut.

x

Harry barely lasted a day this time.

In the courtyard, clearly seeing him alone and scorned by Tom and his crowd, someone quickly took advantage.

This time, he didn’t get away.

x

Through the sweet haze of drugs, Harry dreamt. He drifted in and out of sleep, and through it, he caught snatches of conversation. None that he could understand, just bits of words and phrases that made no sense by themselves.

“—went too far—”

“—supposed to just rough him—”

“—done too much to get him here where I want—”

One sounded like Tom almost. Harry tried to force his eyes open, but it was as if they were sewed shut, impossibly thick.

“I want him dealt with by tomorrow,” Tom ordered, and finally, Harry was able to open his eyelids.

Harry had never heard Tom sound so angry before. With blurry eyes, he watched Tom bare his teeth and snarl at one of his underlings. Literal venom seemed to drip down his teeth, his chin, and when he turned to Harry his eyes were a terrifying bright red. He had no nose, and his face was deathly pale, bone white.

Harry whimpered in fear and struggled weakly against the blankets on top of him. They were so heavy, leaden weights trapping him on his bed, and Harry panicked. Distantly, he registered the sound of the heart rate monitor picking up, beeping incessantly.

He was in the med ward then.

Tom moved to his side, and when Harry blinked, he looked like himself again. Handsome and normal. The same high cheekbones and thin lips. The same strong jaw that Harry could cut himself on.

But Harry couldn’t unsee the drug-induced vision of the snake overlaid with Tom’s face.

Tom reached up to cup his cheek, his thumb stroking over Harry’s jaw. His eyes were hard. A dark brown now, not red.

“Why…?” Harry asked, his voice rough, and Tom shushed him.

“You won’t remember this tomorrow,” Tom told him. Harry slowly blinked up at him, the painkillers lulling him back to sleep. He wondered, in a light-headed sort of way, what they had given him.

It was his last thought before unconsciousness claimed him for itself.

x

There was an odd, solemn hush in the canteen the day Harry was released. At Tom’s side, Harry didn’t understand or know why.

It’s only later, when he was away from Tom, that he learned why. His attacker had been found dead, tucked away in the corner of the prison factory where the cameras didn’t reach.

Harry went back to his own cell, feeling stunned and horrified. Tom was already there, lying down on his bottom bunk. Languid and uncaring.

“They said he’s dead,” Harry said. His voice cracked, and he ducked his head. Tom made a small sound of confirmation, his eyes glinting.

“Unfortunate,” Tom replied. He didn’t sound sincere. “Shame they can’t tell who did it.”

Harry wavered in front of him. Something in him niggled, and instinctively, even if he had no real proof, he said, “It was you, wasn’t it?”

Tom smiled at him, his eyes half-lidded. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It was,” Harry said, confident now. “You took care of him.”

Tom smirked. “You understand now, don’t you?” He asked quietly. “Come here. Say thank you properly.”

Harry bowed his head and swallowed the ball in his throat. His ears were ringing. He felt dazed. Slowly, he closed the distance between them and sank down on his knees. He looked up at Tom, and an odd memory of a dream or something like it came back to him.

Tom gazed down at him, waiting, and in the dim light of their shared cell, his eyes were shadowed and strange. Harry could remember them being red.

He thought about the tattoo on all of Tom’s men, absent on Tom himself. Harry finally recognized it after seeing that picture of Lestrange. He thought about the way everyone here deferred to Tom, how he seemed to be the center of everything in Azkaban. The contraband. How even the prison officers seemed to bow to his whims.

And he knew now. He saw.

“You’re mine,” Tom declared. His hand reached up to grip the back of Harry’s neck, cupping the back of his skull, and it was firm, unrelenting in a way that Harry had begun to associate with him.

Harry’s jaw tightened.

Before he had been framed, he had wanted to be the one to reveal You Know Who. They had called him the Chosen One, so confident that he would be the one to do it.  Here in Azkaban, Harry had wanted to know who Tom Riddle was.

He had gotten exactly what he wanted, even if the way to get there wasn’t exactly what he had planned.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I understand.”

They wanted him to deal with Voldemort?

Harry would.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: tom coerces harry into sex, major dubcon with power imbalance
> 
> since it’s no longer anonymous, i can finally give credit and say certain scenes were inspired by a convo between Cybrid, RedHorse and I ❤️ tnx 😘
> 
> i'm exarite on tumblr as well!


End file.
